


monstrous

by the_ragnarok



Series: Monstrous [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Fatphobia, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, M/M, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Loathing, Sexual Content, Size Difference, Timeline What Timeline, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, accidental truth compulsion, compulsion kink, consensual truth compulsion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: When Jon comes back to the Archives during season 3, Martin realizes his desire for Jon is skyrocketing. He is not happy about this.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: Monstrous [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787548
Comments: 46
Kudos: 498





	monstrous

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how this came out, but I decided if I look at it for another minute I will spontaneously combust, so here it is.
> 
> Many thanks to many, many people - to Exmoose and Code16 for extended handholding and storyboarding help, 300potatoes for brainstorming the original idea with me, Zykaben for telling me how the emotional parts hit, and all the awesome folks on the TMA writers discord for their excellent ideas. Also, there's a bit in here that's inspired by prim_the_amazing's Beastly :)
> 
> As usual, see ending for more comprehensive content warning. Please let me know if I missed any notes/tags!

If Martin had given it any thought, he probably would have expected to have many complicated emotions on seeing Jon again after his time on the run. The relief is predictable; he wasn't, however, prepared for such a strong wave of yearning.

On the other hand, Martin did not expect for Jon to come back with his hair loose, cascading in shiny waves down his back.

"Martin?" Puzzled brown eyes turn on him. "I realize it must be a shock to have me around again, but you look like you've seen a ghost and I don't think that's entirely warranted."

Martin shuts his mouth in a hurry. "Ah, yes! Yes, of course. Sorry. Good to see you." He clears his throat, says, "Tea?" and winces. God, must he be such a fucking parody of himself?

Jon accepts his tea. Martin even manages to make it without scalding himself, despite the frequent derailing of his thoughts into wondering whether Jon's hair is as soft as it looks.

* * *

It's Jon's second day back, and his hair is still loose. That Martin has not yet brained himself walking into a wall is a minor miracle.

Finally, it gets the better of him. "Trying a new look?" he asks while setting a cup of tea on Jon's desk. 

Jon looks rueful. It's not an expression Martin's accustomed to seeing on his face. "I've been having trouble braiding it." He raises up his hand by explanation, still bandaged from whatever horrors he'd met during his time away from the archive.

"Oh, of course!" Martin could smack himself. "I'm sorry, that must be unpleasant." Fuck. Way to make it worse, Blackwood. Any more pointless, inane comments you'd like to offer?

Jon makes a face. "Georgie helped me with it while I was staying with her, but now that I'm back to my own flat, well." 

"I could help," Martin says, and promptly wishes the earth would open up and swallow him. "I mean, um. I know how to do a braid. Not that that means you'd like my help! Haha. Ha."

Jon regards him with a little frown. He's such an unfairly pretty... man? Martin has no idea what Jon's gender is and has never dared ask. He/him pronouns, certainly. "I would, actually," Jon says. He speaks slowly, like he's not sure what the next word would be before it comes out of his mouth. "If it's not too much trouble."

Relief rises in Martin like bubbles in champagne. "Of course not," he says. 

For a moment, Jon just looks at him expectantly. Then he says, "How do you want me?"

That's an exceptionally unfortunate turn of phrase, but Martin soldiers through with only minimal blushing. "Um, just stay where you are. I think someone left a hairbrush and some hairbands next to the cot."

"That might have been me," Jon says dryly. Martin flees without another word.

Brush and hairbands clutched in his grip like magical talismans, Martin comes back into Jon's office. He stands behind Jon's chair and clears his throat. "Just keep going," he says, in a voice half an octave higher than it should be. "I'll, I'll manage."

Jon takes him at his word, shuffling papers and settling on a thick sheaf of them to read. What it is, Martin has no idea; it could be a recipe for scones for all he cares at the moment.

As his tentative hands gather up Jon's hair, Martin realizes he's holding his breath. He intentionally inhales. That's a mistake, because now he is inundated with what must be the scent of Jon's hair product, citrusy and faintly sweet. Jon's hair is heavy, long and thick, and Martin's fingers sink into it like warm, dark water. 

_Get a grip on yourself,_ he thinks viciously, and focusses as hard as he can on parting the hair in his grip. Three parts, nothing fancy. They slot familiarly between his fingers, but the familiarity is belied by different texture, different color and heft. It makes Martin stumble, and he has to undo his first pass and try again.

Jon doesn't say anything. Martin desperately hopes Jon doesn't think he's trying to linger, make this experience last longer. This is made more difficult by the fact that he would, as it happens, dearly love to keep doing this for a month or so. 

In the end, muscle memory wins out, Martin's fingers sliding down the dark brown waves of Jon's hair, the strands weaving over and under each other. The newly-formed braid catches the light, but Martin refuses to be hypnotized by it. 

Jon makes a faint hum. It might not be a response to Martin at all, but a shocking, base part of Martin insists that it is, insists in bringing up lurid images of other ways he might wring noises out of Jon. Desire pools hot and cloying between his legs, so sudden Martin almost loses his balance.

 _No._ He refuses to be like this. Martin shoves it all down, stomping on it until he can breathe again without wanting. 

"Martin?" Jon says. "Is something wrong?"

Martin clears his throat. "No, no, it's fine. Just, you know, woolgathering." He tops it off with a rather unconvincing laugh.

Oh, God, that was a bad time to even _think_ the word "top". 

Jon makes a noncommittal noise. Martin hurriedly finishes the braid and ties it, walking away with some stammered excuse he can barely remember.

* * *

Martin rolls over yet again, punches his pillow, and groans. He's tired enough that his eyes feel gritty, but sleep is not coming to him. Instead, what's coming are images of Jon, a relentless onslaught of them, and all the ways he's different now.

Some things are the same. The glint of golden hoops in Jon's ears, the swish of his ankle-length skirts, the _tap, tap_ of his cane, none of these have changed. But something is different, and Jon showing up with his hair loose is the least of it.

Is he thinner now, or is it just Martin's imagination? He is slightly mortified to realize he has a firm mental image of Jon's wrists. They've always been delicate, but were they quite this bony? At any rate, that's not the heart of it, nor are the host of scars scattered on his skin. Jon manages to wear those as gracefully as jewels in any case. 

It comes to Martin a small eternity later. Or twenty minutes, according to the glaring LED display of his ancient alarm clock. Details. Jon is, is _quieter,_ that's what this is. Smaller-seeming, taking up much less space than he used to. 

That's concerning. Almost as concerning as the fact that Martin likes it. 

_What's wrong with me?_ It's a familiar, well-trodden thought, and it comes with a slew of similarly familiar answers. _I don't respect him, I'm a pervert, I'm a terrible person_. He closes his eyes tightly and prays for sleep. 

It doesn't come. He just keeps turning over - in his bed, in his mind, obsessing over how Jon's hair felt in his hands, how it might feel to hold his (elegant, long-fingered) hand in Martin's own meaty one. To brush his lips across--

"No," Martin groans, and gets up to take a cold shower. He might as well give up on sleep tonight. It's clearly not happening.

It's not that Martin's a prude. He's had boyfriends and one night stands alike. It's not that his crush on Jon is anything new. It just didn't use to be so goddamned _visceral_ , desire flashing through his entire body like a lightning strike. Martin doesn't remember ever wanting anyone like this, so far apart from scribbling sappy poetry in his notebook. 

It's frightening. Makes him feel like a ravenous, slavering beast, waiting to snap Jon up in his clutches. The realization that this has something to with Jon appearing weaker - well, that's the rotten cherry on top of an entirely repulsive cake. Martin already knew he's a cretin, thanks, he doesn't need this latest addition. 

He just needs to put the entire thing out of his mind, and he'll do that. He will. He watches his own hand skating up his thigh like it's an alien life form. _Just once,_ , offers his traitorous brain, _to get it out of your system._

Martin clenches his hand into a fist and paws at the tap, moving the temperature from cold to freezing. No. There are limits.

* * *

What Martin needs is to put this entire insanity out of his mind. His crush was a silly, harmless thing when Jon was imperious and terrifying. Now it's just... bad.

He still offers to do Jon's hair again. He's a weak man, and they wouldn't want it getting so tangled it had to be cut.

Jon acquiesces, doesn't comment on Martin's trembling hands as he combs through silky strands, stays quiet and still until Martin's done. When Martin walks away, he takes in a shaky breath. There, that wasn't so hard. Maybe he'll get better if he keeps doing it. Build up an immunity.

But then Jon has to go and climb the rickety ladder in the stacks.

The wretched thing creaks even under Jon's weight. Martin wouldn't dare climb it at all. But there Jon is, reaching for some hidden statement on the top shelf. Before Martin can think better of it, he's holding the ladder and anxiously watching Jon's feet, currently right at eye height. Jon's skirt has ridden up just a tad, so Martin is uncomfortably close to his narrow, delicate-boned ankles. Close enough Martin could kiss them.

Only fear of what might happen if he lets go of the ladder keeps Martin from flinging himself away. He clings to the rough wood, trying to keep his hands steady until Jon climbs back down.

"Ah," Jon says when he spots him. "Thank you." His tone is formal, just this side of awkward.

Martin isn't sure what he mumbles before he escapes. Judging by Jon's puzzled expression, neither does he.

* * *

The hallways are long and empty, dusty, but Martin isn't looking at them. He's looking at the door in front of him, with the deep scratches gouged into the wood.

"No," he hears inside, "please, stop." It's Jon's voice. 

Martin scrabbles harder, shoving all his weight into the door, but it won't budge. "I'm coming," he yells, but Jon only continues to beg.

His claws, long and sharp, catch painfully on the splintering wood. He has to get to Jon, or something horrible will happen. He's stronger than oak and iron, and he will come inside. Everything he wants is in that room. Once he makes it, once he does....

He hears glass break, and hurls himself into the door. It finally comes loose with a mighty _crack_ , but the window is broken and the room is empty.

"No," Martin says. "No. No!" He frantically looks around the room, searching for whatever has frightened Jon away. All he sees is a mirror, showing him a body like monstrous roadkill, gigantic and coarse-furred and hideous.

Martin blinks awake and thrusts out his hand. His normal, human hand, no claws in sight, only a regular smattering of freckles and gingery hair. It might have made him feel better if he weren't urgently aroused for no reason he wants to think about.

* * *

Martin freezes in his tracks when he hears a yelp of pain from Jon's office. He doesn't run, but it's a close thing. 

He doesn't expect to see Jon tangled up in his own jumper, the bottom of it rising high enough that he can see Jon's shirt. Martin resists the ridiculous urge to avert his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Caught my earring on my jumper," Jon grits out. "A little help, please?"

Just like that, Martin's next to Jon, bending close. "Yes, I see it." There's a bit of brown thread caught up in the gold. Jon's hand moves away, letting Martin handle it. He frowns in concentration as he detangles hair, yarn, and earring, doing his best not to yank on any of them. Jon is stiff and still, taking shallow breaths. 

Finally, Martin manages to take the knot apart, letting his hands drop. "You're good," he says.

This is when he notices that he's breathing the word directly into Jon's ear. That he's pressed against Jon from sternum to hip, with the chair's armrest digging into his stomach. He can smell soap on Jon's skin, and the now-familiar scent of his hair, warm and alive. Martin's mouth waters.

He flinches away, because it's that or fall to his knees and beg. "I, ah, you should be fine now. I'm sorry, I just remembered, I have to file some skin. Statements! File some statements. Argh." He turns away and escapes, feeling Jon's bewildered gaze on his back like a recrimination.

* * *

"No," Martin tells his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It's cracked and water-marked, which is probably an improvement on the original. "Stop it. For the love of God, _stop_."

He already knows he won't. How many chances was he given to improve, but stubbornly remained himself? His mother...

Martin grinds his teeth together. He refuses to think about his mother right now, even if it turns out that she was right about him all along. 

He takes some bracing breaths. Wrinkles his nose, because a bathroom isn't the best choice of places when it comes to that. Tells himself, "I'm going to stop. I won't touch him. I won't think about him this way. I won't come within three steps of him. This has gone on for long enough." Thus resolved, he washes his face, wipes it on his shirt, and goes back to work.

* * *

The next three days are uneventful. He averts his gaze when Jon comes in with his hair loose. He brings tea with his eyes downcast. He only speaks when necessary. The others in the archives give him odd looks. He doesn't care.

On the fourth day, he brings Jon his first morning cup of tea when Jon clears his throat and says, "I would like to apologize."

Martin's eyes snap up at him. "What? What for?"

Jon grimaces. "Well. I would like to also ask that. I'll admit I'm sometimes oblivious, and hurt other people in my actions or lack thereof. I assure you I never meant to hurt you, and if you told me what I did I will do my utmost not to repeat it."

Martin splutters. "You haven't done anything wrong!"

Jon's eyes narrow. "Then why are you avoiding me?"

"Because I want you." The words roll off Martin's tongue, horrifically sweet. Jon's stunned expression doesn't make him any less eager to speak. It's a load off his chest just to say it, and more words come out in their wake. "I think about you nonstop, about what I want to do with you, how beautiful you are, and I know I'm disgusting and worthless but I just look at you and it's like water in the desert."

A moment passes in silence. It’s hard to say, but Jon’s cheeks may have darkened a bit. “I… see.” He turns his eyes back down on the papers on his desk. 

Martin takes this as his cue to flee, chanting _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ all along the way

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a fugue state. Martin periodically reminds himself to try and get some work done, pretend to be useful for once, but no dice. He spends the night mindlessly channel-surfing, trying to numb himself. He doesn’t dare discover what he might dream of. 

He falls asleep on the couch anyway somewhere deep in the AM, and wakes up already late. Honestly he can’t bring himself to feel any worse at the prospect of tardiness. He is already as awful as it gets; what’s a few hours’ delay on top of that?

It doesn’t surprise him when shortly after his arrival, Jon steps out of his office and beckons Martin inside. 

It surprises the hell out of him when Jon produces a brush and a hairband, and says, “If it’s not too much trouble, would you help me with my hair?”

“Ngrk,” Martin says. He clears his throat and tries again. “But I… what I told you yesterday, doesn’t it…?”

“Ah,” Jon says, mouth setting. “Of course. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, my apologies. Of course you are under no obligation to help.”

“Make _me_ uncomfortable?” Martin says, incredulous. “I’m sorry, why is _my_ discomfort a concern? Did you not hear what I told you?” He can’t believe he’s speaking to Jon this way. Can’t believe Jon just asked that. 

Jon slowly blinks. "You said you're attracted to me and for some reason I can't understand, this makes you terrible. Again, if you don't want to--"

"Me _not_ wanting to is really not the problem here!" Jesus, Martin’s going to get a heart attack. He’s fallen into a parallel universe, that is clearly the only explanation for what’s going on. 

“So you’re alright doing it, then?” Jon asks. He waits for Martin’s reluctant nod before continuing. “I certainly would like you to. Therefore, I see no reason we shouldn’t. Do you disagree?”

Martin rakes a shaking hand through his hair. “I don’t understand.”

Jon exhales. “Martin. Do you think you’re a danger to me?”

“No! Yes? I don’t know.” Martin’s hand tightens in his own hair, pulling hard enough to make his eyes water. “Do you really want to risk it?”

The thoughtful look on Jon’s face is setting off dim alarm bells in Martin’s mind. “I suppose there is a way to find out, if you’re willing.”

* * *

“Pardon the mess,” Jon says as they step inside his flat. “I wasn’t living here for a while, and since I returned… well.”

Martin does not give a rat’s arse about the dustiness of the bookshelves. “It’s fine,” he says.

Jon gestures him to the sofa. Martin sits with his hands in his lap. Jon himself sits down on a chair next to the sofa, draws a breath and says, “I suppose we might as well begin.”

Jon explained the basics before, along with a bewildering apology that Martin didn’t know how to feel about. “Apparently, I can compel people to tell me the truth now. I’ve used it on you before,” Jon had said, “when you first confessed your interest. It wasn’t my intention to force you to reveal anything, and I will endeavor not to repeat this without your permission.”

To this moment, the idea makes something inside Martin shudder and squirm. The thought of Jon looking _knowing_ all that about him… it should be repulsive, to inflict that information on Jon, but true to recent form, Martin finds he wants it enough to steal his breath. “Suppose so,” he says. 

“Martin,” Jon says, dark eyes intent on Martin’s. “Would you touch me against my will, or in ways you know I don’t want?”

“No.” Martin blinks. The slow certainty of the word seems to vibrate down to his bones. He tries to fight it, tries to come up with explanations, justifications. But all that comes out is, “No, never. The very idea is horrifying. I’ve had literal nightmares about that.”

Jon nods equanimously. “Do you want to harm me?”

“I really, really don’t.” Where is all this sureness coming from? Martin certainly doesn’t possess it. “That’s why I tried to warn you away.”

“You’re afraid you’ll harm me inadvertently?” 

“Yes.” It’s a relief to say, to be able to put a finger on it. 

Jon shifts in his chair. His eyes, his _eyes_.... “How?”

That question, Martin needs a moment to answer, even as his throat tickles with the desire for speech to pour out. “I’ve never thought about that,” he says, trying to turn the formless, visceral disgust in him into words. “Just seemed wrong to want you the way I do. Like sexual harassment, kind of.”

Jon takes a moment to mull this over. “You believe fantasizing about people without their consent is unethical?”

“Not unethical,” Martin says. “Just not something I should do.”

“Why?” Jon leans forward. His voice feels charged with electricity, a current connecting them. He is so focussed that Martin feels like he’ll melt under the power of that gaze, and be grateful for it. 

Martin gestures at himself. “I mean… I’m me.”

“That,” Jon says, “is not at all a clarifying response. Do you mean you, specifically, should not fantasize about other people without their consent?” Martin nods. “Why?”

“Because I’m disgusting,” Martin says, heart clenching painfully. “Nobody in their right mind would want me thinking of them like that, least of all you.”

“But why do you think you’re disgusting?”

“I just am!” Martin snaps. It’s a struggle not to grab at the flab on his arm as a demonstration. “I wouldn’t be so bad if I could keep from panting after people like a dog.”

Jon rises from his chair to pace. “Let me see if I understand. You think you shouldn’t be attracted to people, because you consider yourself undesirable. And you consider yourself undesirable in part because you are attracted to people; specifically, to me. Is that it?”

It isn’t, it really isn’t, but Martin says, “Yes.” He can’t make himself contradict Jon. He does add, “You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what I want to do to you.” 

Jon stops in his tracks and looks at him. “Wanting doesn't make you wrong, or disgusting," he says. "Nothing you've thought about can make me feel differently." The words have an odd heat behind them. Even so, Martin crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. Jon bristles. "It wouldn't! Go ahead. I'm listening."

Mouth dry, heart pounding in his chest, Martin says, "You don't know what you're asking for. If you knew, you'd hate me."

Jon's eyes are on him, a palpable presence, dark brown and deep enough to drown in. Jon's voice crackles like static when he says, " _Tell me._ "

It's like the numbness in the back of his head minutes before he succumbs to sleep. Not forcing, not tempting, but impressing on him the inevitability of surrender, coaxing with how easy it would be, how sweet. "I want," he says, "I want to touch you. I want to kiss your ankles and your wrists and your eyebrows. I want to put my face in your hair and breathe in how you smell. I want to hike up those skirts and grab your thighs, hoist you up to wrap your legs around me and pin you to the wall and kiss you. I want to put my mouth on you, get you hard or wet or whatever your equipment does when it's happy. I want to finger you and lick your nipples and your neck. I want to make you come until you're wrecked with it, weakly shuddering as I pull more pleasure out of you." His voice doesn't stutter despite the lump in his throat, the tears in his eyes.

Jon opens his mouth, but Martin's not done. He has one thing to add, the worst amongst his crimes.

"I want you to want me back."

Then he shrinks in on himself, gasping and sobbing. The words feel like they’ve pulled something diseased and vital out of him. Something that was killing him, that he couldn’t survive without. 

When he finally manages to open his eyes again, he sees Jon crouching next to him. He flinches without thinking about it, knowing in his bones how revolting Jon must find him.

Jon says, “I’m honestly not sure why you think your desiring vanilla sex with me would give me the vapors, but right now I’m more concerned with your response. Are you okay?”

The words barely have the faintest shade of compulsion. Nonetheless, Martin gasps, “No.” He tacks on, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react like this. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

But Jon says, “If you want to leave for my sake, I would strongly prefer you stay.”

Martin stares at Jon like he grew eyes all over his body. “What?” 

“As far as I see it, I put you through an emotional ordeal,” Jon says. “The least I could do is provide aftercare.”

So Martin sits numbly while Jon brews him a cup of tea. He tracks Jon’s movements helplessly, the domesticity of it tugging on his heartstrings. 

“If you wanted me to answer any questions in return,” Jon says, “that seems only fair, given what we just did.”

Martin tries, he does, but it feels like the confession freed up his brain and now he’s hard-pressed to find anything in it. He ends up blurting, “What’s your gender?” and following it closely with, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer.”

“That’s good, because I don’t exactly have one,” Jon says dryly. “An answer, I mean. Or a gender. I am assured if I had one, I’d know, but I remain sceptic.”

Laughter bubbles out of Martin. His hands shake, spilling hot tea over his fingers. “Shit!”

Jon swiftly rises from the sofa and ushers Martin to the kitchen, turning on the tap and putting his hands under it. “Does it hurt very much?” Jon says, anxious.

The enormity of this - of Jon, with his myriad scars, fussing over Martin’s everyday hurt like it mattered - catches up to Martin; he laughs and sobs in the same time. “I’m fine.” Jon’s hands are on his wrist. He might spontaneously combust. “I’m fine. I don’t understand how you’re willing to touch me.”

With his other hand, Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Martin, I’m not going to argue with you about this. You can ignore what I say, or you can accept that I don’t find you repulsive.” He looks away and mutters, “Rather the opposite.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the flowing water. Then Martin says, “What?!”

Still looking studiously away, Jon says, “I’ve been quite enjoying the attention to my hair. Thank you.”

Okay, this is definitely some fucked up dream. Martin tries not to hyperventilate. “You’re welcome,” he says, because those are the only words that come to him.

Jon turns back to him. He’s still holding Martin’s wrist. “I’m not interested in many of the acts you described earlier,” he says plainly. Martin doesn’t flinch. He knew that already. “The wanting itself, though… that’s intriguing. If you wanted to tell me more, I’d be interested in hearing. And it seems like you were also enjoying helping me groom?”

Martin nods. He’s okay with this dream. It’s a nice dream, and he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Except nothing in Martin’s mind could have foreseen Jon asking, “May I kiss you?”

Martin opens his mouth to answer, and this must be a nightmare, because his enthusiastic agreement would not come out, locked back behind walls of terror. He blinks and considers. “Ask me if I want to,” he says, thickly. “Ask me the way you do.”

“Martin.” Jon’s voice makes Martin’s hair stand on end. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

No power in the world could have held back that, “Yes.” Martin shakes like a leaf as Jon comes close, rising on tiptoes to brush his lips against Martin’s. His mouth tingles. 

Jon pulls back and frowns. “Are you alright?”

“I’m good,” Martin whispers. He shouldn’t be greedy, but he is, because he’s asking, “May I have another one?” Jon comes to meet him before he’s done speaking.

Eventually they remember to turn off the tap. Jon has to lead Martin to the sofa; he feels like he’s walking on clouds. Jon sits down and maneuvers them so Martin’s lying down with his head in Jon’s lap. Jon’s fingers in Martin’s hair feel like he’s getting short circuited, overwhelmed by wonderful sensation.

“You didn’t mention being touched,” Jon says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted that.”

Martin shivers. “I like it. It just didn’t occur to me to want,” he says. It’s not that none of his previous partners have played with his hair, but it hadn’t been exactly a common occurrence. In a fit of daring, he turns around so his face is right against Jon’s stomach. Jon holds him close, letting Martin breathe him in, and Martin might die with how good this is. “I never want to get up,” he says, dreamily. 

“I will have to go to bed fairly soon,” Jon says. Disappointment can’t touch Martin through the thick fog of joy he’s encased in. “Or I suppose I should let you have it. You are the guest.”

Martin thinks about it - sleeping in Jon’s sheets, surrounded by Jon’s scent - and makes a pitiful little whimper. “Too much,” he says. “I can’t.”

Jon keeps petting him until he settles again. “Alright. I’ll bring you linens and you can sleep on the sofa. Do you need anything else?”

 _You,_ Martin’s heart beats, _you, you, you_. He closes his eyes. “I’m good. Shall I let you up, then?”

Jon tugs gently on his hair, forcing a soft _Ah!_ out of him. “In a little while.”

* * *

[A month later]

“My armpit?” Jon says, amused. “I see. Wouldn’t have pegged that for a kink of yours.”

Martin squirms, but Jon’s hand stays tight and perfect in his hair, holding it fast to where it’s resting over Jon’s shoulder. “It’s not a kink,” he mutters embarrassed. “It’s just - you smell like you, and I like it.”

“I suppose it doesn’t make much of a difference either way,” Jon says. “You’re welcome to it, in any case.”

The thrill that runs through Martin is a Pavlovian response by now. He sniffs at the junction of Jon’s neck and shoulder. “Biting?” he asks hopefully.

“No marks.”

There aren’t words to describe the transcendent joy of putting his teeth on Jon. He’s almost grateful for the limit. Getting to give Jon hickies can be enough to fry his brain for hours. Beneath him, Jon makes contented murmurs. Martin’s compiling a mental list of ways to get the good noises out of Jon. It’s getting fairly long.

As he feels himself growing wet, familiar vertigo hits. _How dare you do this. Any moment he’ll realize what he let in his bed and he’ll recoil in horror._

When Jon’s arms wrap around him, it’s enough to make tears prickle in the corner of his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, voice thick.

“Mm.” Jon pushes Martin’s hair back from his forehead. “Tell me what you want.”

Jon likes bossing him around, giving him commands, and that one’s his favorite. Martin’s getting better at answering without occult assistance, too. “To suck you off.” That won’t happen; they both know Jon’s genitals are off limits.

But it’s okay to want. Jon loves hearing him want. 

“I think about the texture,” Martin says. “How you’d taste. Want to make you feel good.” 

“You can give me a backrub later,” Jon suggests.

“Yes.” He will never get enough of that, feeling Jon’s body strong and lithe under his hands, the compact muscles shifting. 

“Do you want to touch yourself?” Jon asks, straddling the line between solicitous and curious. 

Martin forces himself to take stock. Shakes his head. “Don’t think I could take it right now,” he says. “I’ll handle it later.” In a bed still warm from Jon’s body, Jon’s standing permission use him as fantasy fodder making Martin’s arousal all the sweeter. 

Jon lays a kiss on the top of his head. “Alright. Tell me more, then.” There’s a hunger that Martin has learned to recognize in his voice: for knowledge, understanding. “How do you feel?”

“Aroused.” Martin used to think that went without saying, but apparently Jon doesn’t quite grasp that whenever Martin is consumed by lust whenever he is touching him. “Warm. Love you.” He just recently screwed up his courage to say the words, and now he repeats them every chance he gets. 

Jon drops a kiss on the top of his head. “Love you too,” he murmurs. “I’m glad that you feel good. I want you to make yourself feel good.”

Martin gasps, thighs driving mindlessly against the mattress. “One of these days you’re going to talk me into orgasm.”

There is a pause, and then, “Yes,” Jon says. “I rather think I will.”

Martin makes a strangled little noise, flooded with urgent desire. “Okay, I changed my mind, can I touch myself now?” 

Jon runs his nails down Martin’s neck. “Go ahead.”

As Martin grinds up against his own palm, Jon keeps touching him, grounding him. Keeps up a low running commentary: “I love to see how focussed you get,” Jon says. “The strain in your muscles is really quite beautiful. You’re lovely to hold, all soft.”

At last Martin comes with a cry. Later, when he rises and catches a glimpse of himself at the mirror, Martin might still feel revulsion. But right now, surrounded by Jon’s presence, there is so much beauty to drown himself in that his own ugliness doesn’t register. He still can’t believe the nice things Jon tells him, but they don’t feel as blatantly false as they used to. 

Right now, he is content to curl up against Jon, mindless in the wake of pleasure, nuzzling his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, dizzy with love. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Jon says. Maybe one day Martin will even believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features:  
> \- a fat person hating his body and idealizing a thin person's body to a high degree, with emphasis on the thin person's smallness  
> \- a lot of self-loathing with regard to sexuality and attraction  
> \- using truth compulsion to do emotional debugging


End file.
